when the snow falls (part two)
by I love music
Summary: Follyfoot Farm was a "home for unwanted horses and people". Now on DVD, Its ageless themes of falling in love, animal cruelty and finding our place in the world are still relevant today...
1. Chapter 1

**_**Back in 1971 a new Yorkshire TV series, "Follyfoot", aimed at children and teenagers, first aired on British TV. Based on the book "Cobbler's Dream" by Monica Dickens, it concerned Follyfoot Farm "a home for unwanted horses and unwanted people" and the gradual falling in love of its two central characters, Dora and Steve. Over the decades, the series has since been shown all over the world, being available too on DVD, its ageless themes of falling in love, prevention of animal cruelty, and trying to find our place in the world, still popular today with all age groups, including many of the children and grandchildren of its original audience.**_**

_**_**This story, part two of my completed fic **_**__**when the snow falls**__**_** takes you back to how it all began…**_**_

*******when the snow falls***  
>(part two)<strong>**

__If tha's cold, move closer t'fire (Slugger____homily)__

*******Chapter One*******

*****The Lost and the Lonely*****

There were times even now, all these years later, when Steve would retreat into his own world. When Dora mentioned something about her wealthy background or Ron, who thought it would be a "blast", wound him up so far he became a tight little knot of unleashed fury; when Slugger, in his blunt way, waded in with boots heavy as those that in Army days trudged through mud and blood; when the colonel found some small fault with his work or a beaten, emancipated horse was brought to the Farm; when a news story broke about a cruelly-treated child or his mother sent yet another cold, emotionless letter, as though to a stranger, begging him to send more money…oh, there might be a thousand reasons.

Or there might be none.

All that we knew, those of us who followed the Follyfoot story, is that these were times when his dark eyes flashed with a terrible anger and, fists clenched tightly, he would storm away, to sit alone under the lightning tree, staring into a past only he saw.

The Tuesday in July, the day the floods began, was one of those times. The weeks leading up to the peak holiday season had basked in sunshine and tourists flocked to caravans and cottages, to homely B&Bs and haughty hotels, keen to enjoy Yorkshire's breathtaking countryside. Ah, but roses have thorns and if we will have our scenery then we must have our rain. At noon a shrill wind whistled eerily down from the Yorkshire moors, always a harbinger of some great weather change, and in the late afternoon the first torrential downpour arrived. Soaked and shivering, many a holidaymaker took refuge in cafés and pubs, in castles and stately homes, or stayed cooped up indoors to sigh gloomily out at leaden skies.

Now, over the years, and unlike the more experienced hikers, youth hostellers or hardy dog-walkers, amateur ramblers would occasionally wander off the safe, arrow-marked paths, stopping by in curiosity when they saw the sign for Follyfoot Farm. Some left donations and others left litter; some wept at the sad stories they heard and others were indifferent; once an obnoxious pair of brothers tried to purchase a couple of horses to perform tricks in their circus, upping their offer by thousands in the belief anything and anyone could be bought and sold, and, upon being firmly told no __still__ meant no, went on to launch a malicious smear campaign to try and have the Farm closed down; once a wealthy New York couple were so taken by the idea of a home for unwanted horses (and, having a great deal of empathy, astute enough to realise this philosophy extended to people) that, back on American soil, they abandoned their luxurious lifestyle to fund a small dwelling set in acres of land and began a Follyfoot of their own. In short, the visitors were a motley bunch.

The family who strolled casually into the farm in the sunny, dusty heat of mid-morning were typical _"___walk-ins"__ as the Follyfoot people nicknamed their uninvited guests. They consisted of two little girls, a small boy in a pushchair, a tall, skinny man and a smaller, plumper woman. Packing only sunscreen and a picnic of sausage rolls, crisps, sandwiches and two large bottles of lemonade, all crammed into the storage space under the buggy, Marty and Debbie Cragge had set off for, as they optimistically told their brood, _"___a long walk across the Moors"__. Fortunately, being totally unprepared for the wildness and weather of the Yorkshire Moors, they never did reach their intended destination.

Instead they chanced upon Follyfoot Farm, where, seeing stables and a couple of ponies grazing in a field, the parents immediately encouraged their excited children to run wild and free.

It was as they followed their brood that Marty and Debbie realised their mistake. The only animals here being horses and the lack of fellow tourists strongly suggested Follyfoot_ wasn't_ the children's petting farm they'd originally thought. Still, they were agreed, it had been a very lucky break to find something new with which to entertain their demanding offspring and they both deserved a breather. Marty pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and struck a match. Debbie, her throat parched, pulled a bottle of lemonade from under the buggy and twisted open the top. The two incidents combined like a powder keg. The lemonade fizzed up and exploded with a loud bang, startling Marty into dropping a lighted match on to the arid grass…the red spark quickly becoming a wavering orange flame that snaked towards the stables…

Tammy and Tilly, the two timid new ponies, whinnied uneasily as they sniffed smoke on the air. The lock that normally secured the entrance to the smaller paddock, recently constructed on the edge of the Farm, near the field that bordered Buckets Lane, which, in turn, eventually led to a slip road and the motorway, had still not been fixed by a certain Mr Stryker. The gate had been easy enough for three little kiddies under the age of eight to undo. And to leave wide open behind them…


	2. Chapter 2

*******chapter two*******

*****promises, promises*****

Ron Stryker, fast asleep behind the barn, was jolted rudely awake by a sudden commotion.

Having lately been far too busy with his love life to follow footie, he'd been catching up on the world of sport with a three-day old edition of the __Yorkshire Football Post __(which its rightful owner, namely one Slugger Jones, having finally located his unchecked pools coupon, was still trying to locate). Like the responsible person he'd allegedly become, Ron meant to spend just five minutes refinedly browsing through its pages, but the sun had been pleasantly warm and he'd soon nodded off. As usual. And not a single one of his promised chores had been completed. As usual. And everyone's cynical observation that there was no way he'd turned over a new leaf proved correct. As usual.

But the morning hadn't started out like that.

The morning had started out with glorious golden sunshine, and with Ron studying his reflection in the mirror as he tied his stylish new olive green cravat, a gift from the lovely Helen to _"___match his fab red hair", __jauntily around his throat. While making yet another resolution. From this moment on, he told himself, he was going to be a respectable citizen. Surely, with his shoulders thrown back and his manly lantern jaw, already he looked the part? And even though he had overslept, probably due to the partaking of a few too many beers last night, instead of taking the whole day off, he'd ring his employer, Colonel Maddocks, to inform him he would only be a couple of hours late.

Mr Stryker senior, being required at an early morning meeting, had long since left for his high-powered job in the city or he might well have roused Ron much sooner than Ron roused himself. He'd begged his friend the colonel to return the favour of his business advice by giving his wayward son a job to keep him out of trouble, and, as a result, was permanently torn between gratitude that his sole heir was being kept on a straight and narrow path and embarrassment when Ron yet again teetered on the edge and hit the grass. There was no Mrs Stryker. Or, at least, there had been once, a long time ago, but more of that later in our story.

Feeling almost saintly at his decision to go into work, Ronald Gilroy Stryker, who should have been at Follyfoot over an hour ago, carried a mug of tea and two door-stop sized bacon sandwiches smeared with brown sauce into the garden and, his legs sprawled out before him, dined __al fresco__, enjoying the smallest of breezes riffling through his fashionable shoulder-length hair, being entertained by the occasional gossamer cloud sailing slowly through an azure sky and a variety of birds dunking their feathers in the large ornamental fountain at the bottom of the extensive garden.

At last he finished his leisurely breakfast, yawned, stretched, and strolled back indoors to dial Follyfoot Farm. Convinced the colonel would be over the moon to hear that one of his best-ever stable hands (__as Ron fondly imagined himself to be__) would be putting in an appearance, he was brought back down to earth with a nasty bump. The bulk of the jobs had already been done, his irate employer yelled angrily down the receiver, and if he didn't get his lazy ass down here __immediately__ he'd pull strings with top brass and enrol him for National Service. (__Even though he knew National Service had been abolished over a decade ago, Ron shuddered involuntarily. The colonel had way too many ex-Army contacts for his liking.__) Furthermore, Geoffrey Maddocks added, in a full blaze of fury, he could make up for his idleness by doing Dora, Steve and Slugger's work while they took a well-earned break. Ron clicked the phone back in its cradle, rubbed his sore ear and sighed. Couldn't he actually see it was very good of him to turn up when he could have simply feigned illness? (Not that anyone ever believed his illness stories, but still…)

He sighed again. He had no choice but to go in to Follyfoot today. He was strapped for cash and Dad, who used to dole out the readies at the drop of a hat, absolutely refused to give him money for nothing anymore. And the lovely Helen, with whom he was smitten, had very firm views on _"___spongers". __In fact, Helen Shepherd was the reason behind his brand new persona. __This__ time. For if the fiery-haired youth had been given a pound for every promise he made fully intending to keep, he'd have been a very rich man indeed. Instead his promises crumbled so quickly that, had they been pie crusts and he a pie-maker, he would have lived out his days in poverty.

Ron was full of good intentions, but as his elderly neighbour often told him, when she complained, yet again, about his noisy motorbike waking her late at night and, yet again, Ron promised faithfully if it was after eleven o'clock he'd get off the bike at the bottom of the street and push it quietly home, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

The fire, screams and stomping hooves that he woke to made him wonder if he'd arrived there much sooner than Hell had been expecting him…


	3. Chapter 3

**Guest, thank you for your lovely review. You might be interested to know there is a Follyfoot fan tribute site. If you Google those words, you'll find it quite easily – which is fortunate, as I don't know how to do hyperlinks! ;)**

*******Chapter Three*******

*****A Mad Fool*****

"Deuce take it! Why must Ron Stryker torment me so?"

Geoffrey Maddocks muttered the rhetorical question wearily as he rose reluctantly from his bed, hand pressed to his tender brow. He had foolishly eaten cheese this morning. Of course, he knew he would suffer for it. Cheese always gave him migraine, but, dammit, he loved the stuff and, Yorkshire's fresh dairy produce being second to none, sometimes it was just too hard for a body to resist. But it had triggered a thumping headache, hence his short fuse with Ron. After tearing a strip off the latecomer, when he finally deigned to appear, and having left particular instructions with his more willing workforce, Geoffrey withdrew to the peace and quiet of his bedroom in the manor house, where he closed the velvet puddle curtains to plunge the room into darkness and sink thankfully into the motherly arms of slumber.

The headache and nausea receded as sleep and strong painkillers kicked in and he'd begun to feel guilty for yelling at young Stryker. It wasn't Ron's fault, after all, that his head had been pounding and, despite all his wheeling, dealing and work dodging, the boy's heart was in the right place. He might like to pretend he wasn't, but he __was__ genuinely fond of the _"___clapped out old nags"__ (as Ron preferred to call the horses simply because he knew Dora hated the expression). There was the time, for instance, when everyone had been furious because Stryker abandoned the mucking out to apparently enjoy a champagne day at the races. The real reason he'd gone, to successfully persuade a cantankerous business associate of his father's to allow an elderly racehorse he owned to retire to Follyfoot, was only revealed when, dressed surreally in top hat and tails, and his hair tied back in a pony tail for the first-ever and only-ever time, he led Vanity Fair out of a horsebox.

Dora had laughed, cried and, aware Ron made the ultimate sacrifice in dressing like a straight-laced toff, which would have destroyed his street cred image forever if any of his biker mates had seen him, told her friend, to his great embarrassment (although she made amends with a hug and kiss on the cheek that had Steve burning with jealousy) his rough, tough, occasionally gruff, exterior hid a marshmallow centre. Nobody could claim Ron Stryker didn't have an agreeably easygoing nature either, although that particular trait had more to do with the fact he was too lazy to bother being angry rather than altruism towards his fellow man.

The announcement that he could take on everybody else's chores for the rest of the day had had no more effect on the long-haired beatnik (__Colonel Maddocks deluded himself with the belief he was quite up to date with the fashion and culture of young people, but, in truth, had yet to catch up with even Beatlemania, let alone the music and styles of the early 1970s__) than for him to shrug his shoulders and admit, "Ah, well, fair play, I s'pose, me old mateys". Which, this being Ron, made them all immediately suspicious and slightly alarmed. And quite why, as he left the farmhouse, smoothing back his flowing locks with the injured air of a martyr and, when he thought no one was looking, a grin as big as a Cheshire cat's, he stashed a folded newspaper inside the infernal denim jacket he always wore, even on the hottest of days, Geoffrey well might well have queried, if his head hadn't felt like a sledgehammer beat against it.

But as his migraine and mood lifted, the colonel couldn't help feeling perhaps he'd been a little __too __harsh. An hour must have passed by now, the period they'd agreed they would leave Ron to his own devices. No more and no less, Geoffrey warned Steve, Dora and Slugger, shortly before the tardy one arrived, and boding no argument from his niece, who, not wanting to be away from her beloved horses for even five minutes, was already pacing the farmhouse, fretting about her charges. An hour, Colonel Maddocks thought, and not the whole day as Stryker was led to believe, would be enough time to shock him into doing some work yet not enough time for him to cause any damage. But he would make it up to Ron now. He would send him to the village for fish, chips and mushy peas (a treat to them all instead of enduring Slugger's somewhat dubious cooking, but particularly Ron, who's favourite it was). Pleased with his plan, Geoffrey decided to lie for just a few seconds more, being blissfully soothed by nature. It was wonderfully relaxing. Birds whistled and flapped wings in flight, horses whinnied and neighed, the brook that bordered Robinson's Farm lapped rhythmically while a tractor ploughed somewhere in the distance…a gentle breeze sailed blithely indoors, bringing with it the smell of new-mown hay, the heady perfume of summer flowers, the familiar horsey scent that he had loved ever since boyhood…sunlight somehow climbed inside through the tiniest chink and his gaze contentedly followed its dancing, uncertain patterns, an all-is-well-with-the-world calm sweeping over him…

…Then the roar of a motorbike thundered aggressively into the solitude, the smell of petrol and smoke drowned out all sweeter aromas, and he remembered exactly why Ron Stryker always pushed him too far.

Almost wishing he didn't have to look, the venerable old soldier pulled back the drapes and, still somewhat drowsy from the effects of the tablets, was convinced he was be dreaming. Either the mad fool really had lost his mind this time, or he planned a new career as a stuntman or circus clown, for Stryker leapt off the moving bike, grabbed a bucket of water (one always stood in readiness by the Lightning Tree) and threw it over someone standing near the barn. But if he had lost his mind, then it would appear Dora, Steve and Slugger had suddenly been stricken down with the same malady. Colonel Maddocks knew all three, especially Dora, would be keen to get back to the horses at the end of the hour, but he hadn't expected to see the girl running at breakneck speed towards the stables, with Steve and Slugger hot on her heels. But, bafflingly, they too picked up buckets of water, stolen from under the startled horses' noses, and flung yet more over the already soaked gentleman.

And then he noticed the thick, black smoke curling into the sky…


End file.
